


Guilty Conscience

by mousaerato



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, First Crush, Hebephilia, Humanstuck, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-20 05:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mousaerato/pseuds/mousaerato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only supposed to be a job to fill up the empty space before Jake came running back. You guess it still was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

TG: dirk  
TG: havnt seen u online in a whle  
TG: *while  
TG: whatsup  
TT: I’m fairly certain even in your inebriated state, you know very well what’s up, Lalonde.  
TG: geez way to shoto someone down  
TG: *shoot  
TT: I’m in no mood. Sorry.  
TG: jakes been askin bout u  
TG: think hes regrettin his decision  
TT: That’s par for the course for him: act first, think later.  
TG:  you two always get back togehter tho  
TG: *together  
TT: That may be true, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen any time soon.  
TG: wow waht did he say?  
TT: I’d rather not repeat it, but let’s say it involved the words “needy” and “suffocating.”  
TG: omfg only bc hes always on the run  
TT: I know. I’m trying not to think about it too much, at least for a while.  
TT: The plan in the meantime is to spend that time on something else.  
TG: more robots?  
TG: wait no thatll make u think too much of him  
TT: I’ll figure something out.  
TG: k i know u wanan be left alone but just remember ur friends ok?  
TT: Ok.  
TG: take care

\-- tipsyGnostalgic [TG] ceased pestering timaeusTestified [TT] \--

                You figured a part-time, temporary job would be a good idea to fill up the empty spaces Jake’s absence has left. It’s why you’re online now, clicking through local “help wanted” ads. It’s mostly stuff they couldn’t pay you enough to do or things that require way too much face-to-face interaction, until you find an ad in all caps: TUTOR FOR YOUNG CHILD NEEDED.

                You click it and cringe:

                _Looking for organised and gifted tutor for 12 (point nine!) year old. Must be native english speaker. Will help child with handwriting, maths and other things. Please call: (832)- 868 -1111._

Looks like it was written by someone whose first language wasn’t English, or someone who learned English in the UK. Maybe it’s both? Whoever this kid is, he or she certainly doesn’t seem to have a capable guardian. Children aren’t really your strong suit, but if they’re this desperate for someone “gifted,” you’re sure you could handle it. Their standards seem pretty low.

                You take out your cell phone, hoping for messages from Jake. There aren’t any. You dial and sigh.

                “Hello,” a smooth and confident male voice answers. For some reason, it wasn’t what you were expecting.

                “Oh, uh, hi. I’m answering the ad for a tutor?”

                “I didn’t put up an advertisement for a tutor,” he replies. You swear you can hear the scampering of feet in the background and some high-pitched yell – must be the kid. _Kids_ , maybe?

                “Maybe I dialed the wrong number-“

                “Hold on,” he says. “Let me get my employer’s wife.” _Employer’s wife, huh?_ Damn, this family must be loaded. You can tell this servant guy is trying to cover the receiver of the phone, but you can make out the crash and smash of something large and probably porcelain (the sound is too low for it to be fragile glass), followed by a woman swearing in Japanese to herself. There are two other voices, young and persistent, and you’re sure there’s actually two children in this house.

                Finally, someone picks up. The voice is womanly, a little husky, and thickly accented. Sure enough, it’s somewhere between Japanese and British. “H-hello?”

                “Hi, I’m answering an ad for a tutor…hopefully I’ve got the right number-“

                “Oh, yes! You do!” She sounds positively _relieved._ “How old are you, first off?”

                “Almost 16,” you answer.

                “Great, great…you’re good student, right?”

                “Yes ma’am.”

                “Great…I was hoping for a young man. You see, my step-son doesn’t take kindly to girls…”

                You try not to laugh. “They never do at that age, though, do they?”

                She laughs heartily; it seems like you’ve won her over already. “If we wanted to meet you, could you come to our house?” She says ‘house’ like it’s a lie. Probably trying to play down the whole “I have a butler answering my calls” thing.

                “No problem.”

                “Could you come here today, actually?” This is almost too perfect of a distraction.

                “Sure,” you say as you double-check the time on your computer. “It’s 4 PM now – want me to come by around 5?”

                “You could do that?”

                “Absolutely.”

                “Thank you, thank you, thank you – I’ll have Scratch send you directions. Oh, darn it—“ She turns away from the phone. “Caliborn! Calliope! _Stop it right now!_ What will your father think when he arrives? _”_ She turns back to address you. “I have to go. Bye!”

                She hangs up.

                No wonder she’s got a butler. And no wonder she needs help. 


	2. Chapter 2

                Scratch gives you directions to a part of town that isn’t too far away. You get there 10 minutes in advance to be professional. The house – more a manor, really -- is fucking _huge,_ but you don’t remember it being there. They probably just built it, meaning that these people are filthy rich. The whole three-floored building’s made of this kind of tacky dark green bricks, and you can tell that the back yard is a spacious garden, even from looking at the manor from the front. You can definitely tell they’re not from around here, whoever they are.

                The green makes you think of Jake’s eyes.

                You knock on the wooden door and to your surprise, the lady of the house answers, not the butler. If you were in any way, shape, or form interested in women, you would be interested in her. Objectively speaking, she’s a fox: 5’5”, creamy pale skin, shiny black hair pulled into a bun save for two long strands framing her face. She’s got on this tight, Eastern-inspired green dress with lighter accents that comes to her knee, and she’s wearing rather nice, simple dark flats. She’s obviously a trophy wife more than anything else.

                “Oh gosh, I forgot! What is your name?” she asks.

                “Dirk,” you reply as she lets you into the house. She has the butler (an older man with thinning white hair and a bone-white suit with green underneath) make you two some tea, which you accept, and the two of you sit at a small coffee table in the living room. It’s huge, with elaborate paintings on the walls of faraway places and sculpted angels on the mantle of a fireplace (why would they need a fireplace? They really must be from somewhere strange). Her husband must travel a lot; it would explain why he’s not here.

                She sips gracefully from the gold-accented, ivory cup. “The kids are upstairs in their room.”

                “So there’s two?”

                “Yes, they’re twins,” she says, placing her cup on its matching plate. “We’ll only need you to tutor one of them, though.”

                You quirk an eyebrow.

                “Caliborn,” she explains with resignation and _regret,_ “…he’s just not cut out for traditional schooling. We tried, we really did, but with all the moving and traveling we do, it was hard on both of them. Less so his sister – she’s just so bright – but he’s taking it exceptionally hard.”

                “Does he need accommodations?” You’re worried this kid might have a serious issue that you can’t handle.

                “We used to think that, but so far, nothing seems to point out he’s anything besides…well, a brat.” At least she admits it. “He won’t listen to Scratch, he _hates_ Calliope, and for some reason he doesn’t respect me one _bit.”_ Stepmother complex. It happens. “I understand this is a lot, but we really need someone to help him out.”

                “Is this going to be permanent?”

                “Only a few months at most.” Good. “Just until his father returns and we figure out what we’re going to do with the two of them.”

                “So he needs help with handwriting, math, and what else exactly?”

                “He’s not exactly too keen on reading,” she admits. “It’s not that he can’t, it’s that he _won’t,_ since his sister is so good at it.”

                “Gotcha,” you offer.

                “He’s not the easiest boy to get along with. I’ll admit that now.”

                “It’s no problem. Really.” _So long as my stuff isn’t wrecked and you pay me,_ you think to yourself. “So, will I be coming over here, or will he be coming over where I am?”

                “Oh gosh, I hadn’t thought of that…” Her brow furrows in frustration. Obviously, she’d prefer if the kid wasn’t here if you heard right on the phone, but if she says that, she’s going to look like a shitty stepmom. You’ll make the offer first.

                “There’s plenty of space where I am,” you tell her, a sort of half-truth. Your place is small, but your bro is never around, so it’s pretty spacious relatively speaking. “And I’m pretty sure I can handle anything the little guy can dish out.”

                “Would you do that, please? We’ll be sure to pay you extra.”

                _Yes._ “Ma’am, that’s not necessary—“

                “No, really, it is…you see, I think he could use a male in his life closer to his age, so I think you deserve more than what I was going to offer you.”

                _So she wants a glorified babysitter. Great._

“How many times a week will he be coming over?”

                “Once or twice.” You can work with that. “About two to three hours, depending on our schedules.”

                “That’s fine.”

                “And we’ll pay you $500 a week.”

                Thanks be to _God_ you mastered the fine art of deadpan expressions; if you didn’t have that skill, your jaw would have hit the floor.  

                “Is that okay?” she asks, like she’s got no concept of money. Her husband must be some kind of glorified pimp. That, or Bill Gates.

                “Sure,” you respond, trying to hurry past the topic and seal the deal.

                She sighs deeply, relieved. “Oh, thank goodness. You’re a lifesaver, you’re an angel, you know that?”

                “It’s nothing…but, do I get to meet the kid?”

                “Of course! I should have thought of that before.” She apologizes a lot when things don’t go how you say they should. You wonder if her husband is demanding. “Help yourself to the candies on the table and I’ll go get him – Scratch bought them for guests. Isn’t he an excellent host?”

                She walks up a rather large, elaborate staircase that looks like it’s made of marble – thank goodness she’s in flats, or you think she’d fall and hurt herself. You eye up the green candy dish and take a few of the strange, blue candies shaped like arrows. There’s some Scottie dogs, too, but you’re not much of a fan of licorice.

                You can hear her banging on a door upstairs. This is going to be good. 


	3. Chapter 3

                “Caliborn…” Her voice is stern, but patient and quiet.

                “Fuck you, bitch!” You can hear him loud and clear all the way downstairs. He’s got quite the mouth on him. His voice is higher-pitched than you expected.

                “You will _not_ call me that, young man.”

                “Fine! You’re just dad’s trophy piece of ass, how about that, huh? You’re his Japanese ho! You’re basically a fucking car!”

                She doesn’t even deny it. Wow. “Just…come out of your room. There’s a guest I need you to meet.”

                Everything’s silent for a moment, but eventually you hear a door open. His step-mother doesn’t chide him or strike him, if your ears are right, which is both calming and alarming for you. Sure, it’s nice that this kid doesn’t seem to live in a place that’s violent, but _damn,_ if you had said that to your bro or one of his flings, he would have kicked your ass. The whole scene’s a little sad when you really think about it. When you came in, you didn’t even notice the woman’s eyes, and think you know why now – she’s deadened. You cross one leg over another and get comfortable, taking another sip of tea as the sound of two pairs of feet get louder. You look up and notice the lady of the house (whose name you still haven’t caught) fighting with an obviously bratty child. He’s what, 5’4”? He’s bald, ruddy, with big brown eyes that have a hint of red in them, and he’s got on these emerald green suspenders that are way too dapper for someone his age to be wearing. God, the kid’s even got a red bow-tie on with his black shirt, plus these dark gray dress shoes. Everything about his expression screams that he feels smothered, exasperated, _annoyed as fuck_ that he has to deal with this woman and what he’s got to think of as some kind of exhibition…

                …and then he looks at you. You don’t wave, don’t acknowledge his eye contact, or even flinch. His step mother keeps walking, face forward, but he’s still straining to look at you as she leads him down the steps. His eyes are narrowed and suspicious, but he won’t stop staring. It’s like you’re the first person he’s ever seen besides his family. His gaze is oddly, noticeably intense; he’s fascinated.

                When you finally give the kid a slight upward nod to acknowledge him, he loses his composure and falls down the rest of the stairs. His step mother doesn’t stop him, and she takes her good, sweet time walking with poise to help him back up.

                “I warned you about stairs, Cal,” she coos as she checks his face and straightens his tie.

                You wonder if she possibly means the glancing instead of the obvious. 


	4. Chapter 4

                She makes him shake your hand.

                You get up to do so not out of respect for the kid, but out of a desire to help this poor woman out. The kid still scoffs with superiority when you do so, though.

                “Give him your name, dear,” she tells him. It’s like she’s trying so hard to keep control over him, but she knows she really can’t.

                “Hmph,” he mutters with a hum. “My name doesn’t matter to you.” His stepmother sighs and rubs her temples.

                You shrug. “Well then, I guess it doesn’t matter if I call you ‘little guy who totally loves kissing girls’ then, right?”

                He stiffens up, mortified; his stepmother stifles a laugh. It seems like the first time she’s enjoyed anything in a while from the way her face softens and lights up.

                “…Caliborn,” he mumbles imperceptibly.

                “What was that, Girl Kisser? Can’t hear you all the way up here.”

                He yells, “My name is _Caliborn_ you pompous—“

                “’Pompous’? That’s a pretty advanced word for a kid your age.”

                His stepmother looks positively overjoyed that you’re managed to reel this kid in – good thing Caliborn can’t tell since she’s behind him. He looks startled that you’ve complimented him, even if it was an ironic, insincere one. He blinks repeatedly, caught totally off guard, and you can’t help but notice this kid’s got some serious eyelashes going on with those big eyes. It’s kind of adorable; added to his attitude, you might die of cute.

                Then your heart drops: “Caliborn English.”

                You didn’t want to hear that last name for a while.

                “Dirk Strider.”

                “Your glasses are stupid.”

                This time, the Missus lets herself have the laugh. “Caliborn,” she starts, “this is who you’ll be taking lessons from twice a week.”

                “What, _now?_ ” He’s incredulous.

                She looks over at you to gauge your reaction. She seems to understand you even through the shades. “Next week. He just wanted to meet you first.”

                When you leave a bit later, you swear you see the kid flip you off.  You’d be irritated if not for the fact that it’s fucking hilarious.


	5. Chapter 5

                A week passes. Jake hasn’t contacted you, but at least starting today you’ll have something else to work on.

                You drive out to the disgustingly-colored manor to pick up your new “student,” you guess. Scratch answers the door this time; Caliborn is with him, wearing a painfully similar outfit as last week, but with a large, dark gray and red backpack. He doesn’t say anything until you’re in the car together.

                “Where the _fuck_ do you live,” he demands.

                “About 15 minutes away,” you respond flatly. “Not too far. Why? Homesick?”

                “I _hate_ that place,” he grouses, crossing his thin arms over his chest. “It’s full of bitches and brain dead fucking morons.”

                You laugh a little under your breath. “Okay.”

                He’s quiet – eerily quiet –after you respond. When you get to the red light before your house, you ask him if there’s anything wrong. He vehemently denies that there’s a problem, but asks you with a huff and puff, “Does my language not _disgust_ you?”

                “Fuck no, Cal,” you respond with a shrug as the light turns green.

                “ _Oh,_ ” is all he can seem to muster in response. “Well then.”

                You’re the first person who’s ever tolerated his profanity, judging from how disarmed and pleased he seems at the development.

                You figure the first thing you should work on is handwriting; it’s the most fundamental of things, really. If he can master that, the rest should be easier...on you, anyway. When he gets into your room, he marvels.

                “This is where you live?”

                “This is actually where I _sleep_ ,” you correct with a bit of superiority, “but I guess you could say I live here, yeah.”

                “What’s all that wire and scrap stuff?”

                “We’re not here to talk about—“

                “That bitch _paid_ you, so I demand to know what the _fuck_ those things are! Do it.” Demanding little brat, isn’t he?

                “They’re for robots. I build them as a hobby. Mostly just to make them kill each other, though.”

                He smiles; of course the kid’s fascinated with killing things –why wouldn’t the nutbar be? “So you’re interested in machinery then...Dirk?” He says your name like he shouldn’t be calling you that. Maybe his step-mom told him to call you Mr. Strider. You’re kind of glad he’s going with the first name, though.

                “Yeah, but this isn’t about my interests. I’m supposed to help you write.”

                “My writing is just _fine,_ thank you.”

                “Prove it. Write something over there – anything you want.”

                You direct him to your desk, which you cleared off for the occasion, covered instead with pieces of lined paper and multiple pencils and pens. He hums, a kind of irritated and annoyed noise, and sits down without so much as a glance at you. You watch over his shoulder from a safe distance as he picks up a traditional lead pencil in his right hand and starts.

                His hand shivers and shakes; his fingers cradle the implement at odd angles, and you can see that every motion is labored and full of struggle for him. You can’t make out any of his squiggles, and you’ve got pretty good vision, even with the shades on. His eyes narrow with determination, and his mouth is pressed into a very serious, stern line.

                It reminds you of Jake’s face when you two would strife.

                You shake your head and get closer to Caliborn, trying to make out what on Earth he’s trying to write here. Maybe it’s the sexual frustration bubbling up, but some of the things he’s “writing” look rather phallic to you – you might want to stop him, but you don’t feel like having to explain why.

                You take a good look at his hand and motions again, and something dawns on you. It’s familiar to you.

                “Cal, do you always write like this?”

                “Yes,” he answers with an exasperated _bite._ “Why?”

                “Your handwriting sucks. Is this why they call you stupid?”

                “Well _excuse me_ you fucking twit, not all of us are brilliant and gifted calligraphers—“

                “Like your sister?”

                He starts applying more pressure to his writing out of spite; it comes out even more hideous. You try to calm him down: “No, I’m serious. Is this how your sister writes?”

                “Yes, it is, now—“

                You take the pencil out of his hand before he can finish his sentence. He looks up at you, frustrated and, from your view, embarrassed. “Give me that back, I wasn’t fucking finis-“

                “Try it like this,” you say as you place the pencil in his other hand instead. He eyes it with suspicion and intrigue; it’s like the idea never dawned on him. You’re not sure if you should laugh at the kid for being so slow on the uptake, or feel bad for him that his family obviously wasn’t paying close enough attention to him.

                He manages to write his name effortlessly and clearly, save for a few smudges from where his left hand rubs against the already-completed letters. He stops, eyes wide and a smile staring to form on his lips.

                “Well then,” you say. “Looks like you’re not stupid – you’re just left-handed like I am.”

                “ _You?”_ He looks up at you with those same big, brown, suspicious eyes. This time, they’re _definitely_ filled with interest, maybe even admiration or _gratitude._

“Yep,” you start, shaking your left hand at him, “We’re rare, but there’s plenty of us around. Try writing something else, or drawing.”

                “Oh, _yes,”_ he hisses. “I know _exactly_ what I’m doing now.”

* * *

                When you get home from finally taking him back later that night, you get a call from his step-mother, voice all full of enthusiasm.

                “Mr. Strider, you are an absolute _miracle worker_ ,” she gushes. “What did you do?”

                “Turns out the little guy’s a southpaw.”

                “...Southpaw?” _Shit, you forgot English isn’t her first language._

“He’s left-handed - sorry. Guy was writing with his right, so it looked like trash when he really could write just fine.”

                “Yes, it’s – oh, this is just great...” There’s a twinge of sadness and resignation in her voice; definitely doesn’t sound too happy about it.

                “Hrm?”

                “Oh, it’s just...well, now we can read exactly what Caliborn was writing to his sister, and...I think I need to go and give the boy a stern talking to and a time out. They’re really quite crude and elaborate...”

                You hear a girl crying in the background; Mrs. English hangs up.

                You wonder if they’ll need you again this week. 


	6. Chapter 6

                There’s no way Jake should last any longer than two weeks. At least that’s what you keep telling yourself to soothe the unease in your stomach when you see no missed calls or text messages from Jake. He’s still not on Pesterchum, though, which means you’re probably on his mind – if you weren’t, he wouldn’t have modified his behavior. By the end of this week, he’ll be calling and begging and pleading. You just know it.

                Still, you’ve got other things to worry about besides show good Jake’s lips will feel when he kisses you again with such passion and intensity. You’re due at the _other_ English household in about half an hour, and the Missus owes you your pay. You’re wondering how much you should set aside for your inevitable make-up date.

                Scratch shoos you in and the Missus of the house – who finally gives you her name, Damara – gives you the biggest, tightest hug you’ve ever received. You’re actually surprised at how strong she is; you guess being a trophy wife comes with the benefit of constantly working out. You go rigid in her grip, arms at your sides seized up with energy. You’re really not used to having your personal space invaded like this, and to be honest, her breasts pressing against your chest is kind of unsettling. Especially since you were pretty sure they were fake given her frame and their size, but now that you know from contact with them that they’re warm and have some give and squish to them, well...

                Let’s just say it’s not doing anything for you. It’s _really_ not doing anything for you.

                She pays you in cash, quietly and without too much talking. You immediately put it into your wallet and nod in appreciation, words drying up in your throat quicker than you’d like to admit. You have never had this much money on your person and if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re freaking out. Some of the freak out is from a sudden rush of _power,_ but the rest of it is running through ways to hide this on the way back to your apartment. If your Bro found it – if he was ever home – he’d give you the third degree. It’s just how he is.

                It’s the first time you come in and see the English family’s other child, Calliope. Her culture and raising is noticeable from even the way she sits, back straight and motions delicate, refined. Her hair is pale white, short, and a little curly – you’re pretty sure it’s a wig, strangely enough. She wears a lot of green from her shirt to her skirt, and she sits on a silver throw pillow in front of the coffee table as she works, presumably drawing.

                She looks thin and fragile. You wonder if she has the pillow there for fear of hurting her knees. Still, there’s a fire in those bright green eyes, like there are wheels turning in her mind, full of ideas and notions and concepts that need to be written down as quickly as possible. If you’re being honest with yourself, it reminds you of yourself when you work on something you’re interested in. It’s a kind of madness, really.

                Mrs. English directs you to sit near the coffee table. Calliope immediately introduces herself and even gives a small, disjointed curtsey. The way she smiles at you and says “pleased to meet you” even makes _your_ heart melt a little, though you think you might need to brush your teeth from how sugary sweet it all was. You wonder if it’s an act; it’s almost _too_ perfect and cliché for you.

                “Callie, dear,” Mrs. English starts. “This is Mr. Strider, Caliborn’s tutor.” _Oh God you’re old enough to be called “Mister” your bro is probably somewhere mortified right now._ “He’s the one who taught your brother to write.” You wish she wouldn’t overstate your influence.

                “Oh,” Callie offers, nervous and reserved. Gosh, could she be any more precious? “Do you think...if it wouldn’t be too much of a hassle, you could get him to stop—“

                “Stop harassing you?”

                She nods.

                “I’ll see what I can do.”

                Her whole face lights up. “Thank you!”

                “Do you think you can go get him, actually?” Mrs. English asks. There’s a softness in her voice, like she’s asking something she knows to be a task.

                “I’ll try!” It’s as if your words energized her. She runs upstairs and in a flash, you see two bodies running down the stairs in and black and green blur, Calliope tugging at Caliborn and bringing him down.

                You look at their stepmother, who is suddenly horrified at the vision. “Calliope! Don’t do that!”

                When they both reach the bottom of the stairs, the little waif of a girl is breathing heavy, panting, and shaking. As if she needed more green to her outfit, suddenly her face looks sickly.

                “Caliborn! Why didn’t you look out for her?”

                “It’s not my responsibility!” he snaps back. Scratch suddenly comes out from the other room with a glass of cold water, coddling the young girl as he kneels to check and tend to her.

                “Yes it is!” She barks, and even you feel attacked. “Did you give her a hard time again when she went up there?!” You kind of wish you weren’t here. This whole thing is embarrassing.

                “No.” Caliborn looks down at his dark gray shoes and digs his thumbs into the pockets of his green pants.

                “You’re lying!”

                “I am _not!_ ” Strangely enough, he looks at _you,_ big brown eyes energized and alert _._ He might be a foul-mouthed little prick, but something about him tells you he just...doesn’t lie. You’ve learned how to spot a fake from a mile away over the years, and there’s nothing in his face – a combination of perpetual contempt with specks of shock and _fear_ – that says he’s dishonest. Tricky, maybe, but not dishonest. There’s a huge difference.

                “What will your father say when he gets here, huh?” Both of the children gasp with that.

                “Mummy,” Calliope starts weakly, “d-don’t tell daddy. It’s fine, it’s my fault, I just—“

                “Shh,” Scratch placates. “Mrs. English, might I suggest simply writing this off as...sibling bickering?”

                “Fair enough,” she sighs. Caliborn’s posture relaxes, and Scratch picks Calliope up and carries her upstairs, presumably to her room. You’ve really got no clue what just happened here, but you’re pretty sure you and Caliborn are on the same page of wanting to _get the fuck out._

                “Uh, Mrs. English?”

                “Damara, dear.” _Oh geez she wants you to call her by first name._ Way too friendly with you. Now you’re _really_ wondering what her husband’s like.

“Damara, I think it’s getting a little late. Should Cal and I get going?”

                “ _Please,”_ she stresses, and that’s all you need to nod to Caliborn. He gets the message and follows behind you when you walk out.

                This car ride is a different kind of quiet. Caliborn looks downward the entire time, save the few moments he gazes out the window. You don’t say anything about the small sniffle you hear him try to muffle, but you can’t help but wonder: what the hell have you gotten yourself into? More than that, how is this kid going to act tonight?

                You’re probably not going to do any kind of direct teaching this evening, are you? Whatever – you kind of feel sorry for this kid right now. 


End file.
